


An Egotistical Arsonist And The World's Strongest Narcissist Walk Into A Gay Bar...

by upsidedownscarecrow



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Also I swear a lot as the omnipotent narrator, Black Widow AU, M/M, Rated T for these swearrible men mostly, Roadrat week prompts, figured I'd try writing something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9864836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upsidedownscarecrow/pseuds/upsidedownscarecrow
Summary: Roadrat week prompts, if something has a specific warning on it I'll stick it in the notes at the beginning of the chapter.





	1. Mocking The Rich For Fun And Profit

**Author's Note:**

> No specific warnings, I just find it funny they stole the incredibly un-sellable crown jewels.

     It had been a mess, to be frank. Security was tighter than they had thought, the fire across the city hadn’t drawn as many first responders as expected, and the place was a lot more confusing to navigate than it looked from the outside. But, fuzzy hats were extremely flammable, cop cars tended to not work so well with their engine block resting in four discrete pieces, and as soon as they found somewhere near ground-level, a window served as a suitable enough exit. Even a snapped pegleg hadn’t done much to slow them down, with some liberal use of duct tape and a bit of the spoils, once they got to the sidecar.  
Eventually the sirens faded into the distance, they shook the drones by switching to a moving truck, and they had returned to the unoccupied vacation home outside of the main city, fairly confident they wouldn’t be bothered.

  
     Currently the two of them were recovering in the kitchen, still breathing a bit heavily from the excitement of the evening. Roadhog was seated at the island, resting his head on his forearm and tiredly turning the orb of coronation in his free hand. Junkrat was seated on the island, with an electric drill and enough bolts to make the glorified dress-up wand neither could remember the name of into a sturdy-enough leg to last him until they could stop by a proper hardware store (“Yeah the metal’s soft as fuck, but better than a broom handle, or some shit.”). A kettle was on the stove, and two mugs with liberal scoops of hot chocolate mix were on the counter next to it.

  
     Roadhog perked up when the whine of the drill finally stopped and a metallic finger tapped the bauble he’d been turning. Junkrat flashed a grin once he saw he had Roadhog’s attention, “‘kay so how do you want to split this stuff anyway? I don’t really want to sell it, I mean, don’t think I really could either with it being all famous and stuff… Think I already kinda laid claim to the staff-thingy, but I’d really like to have a crack at making the colonization ball thing-a-ma-bob a bit more fun.”

  
     Cracking a grin a grin at the name “colonization ball” Roadhog and rolled the item to Junkrat with a muttered, “accurate”. It wasn’t like he was particularly interested in actually _owning_ any of the garbage, “had my fun already. Point’s just taking it away from rich fuckers, and that’s done.” His smile grew a bit cockier behind the mask, almost rivalling his partner’s, “I’ll be keeping the crown though, I look good in it.”

  
     “Hell, no argument here, better than on any inbred rich fucker they could stuff in it.” Junkrat let the orb fall to the counter before grabbing the gaudiest crown that wasn’t yet claimed, and slapping it onto his own head, “King Jamison Fawkes and King Roadhog! Guaranteed to fuck it up less than your leading bluebloods!”

  
     That earned a snort from Roadhog, but he couldn’t resist poking a small hole in the statement, “can’t be two kings. Only one person in charge in a monarchy.”

  
     Near instantly, Junkrat was dragging around the snout of Roadhog’s mask and scowling in mock annoyance at the "challenge", “well what do _you_ suggest? Got something there _is_ two of, or you just being a sourpuss for the fun of it?”

  
     Roadhog grabbed the hand from his mask and pressed it to the island as he stood to deal with the now-whistling kettle, “you ought to keep ‘king’. Got a blueblood-ass name anyway.”

  
     Now there was an accusatory finger leveled at him as he poured the water. Junkrat warned with as much gravity as someone fighting laughter could deliver, “hey, call me a fuckin’ rich fucker again and you’re outta here!”.

  
     Roadhog hit the utensils drawer third try and stirred while responding, “couldn’t catch that. Try taking the silver spoon out of your mouth.” Where was the fun in being on each other's good side if he couldn't have a bit of fun, after all?

  
     “Fired.”

  
     Roadhog looked down at the two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands, “so both of these are mine, then?”

  
     With an involuntary bark of laughter Junkrat pressed a hand over his eyes and trying not to laugh again he sputtered, “hey, handsome fella like you looks like he could use a job. I got a position, just opened up.”

  
     Shrugging, Roadhog pressed the cup that proudly proclaimed “World’s Best Uncle” in comic sans, into Junkrat’s metal hand. “Seems fair.” He leaned against the island and hooked his free arm around ‘Rat’s middle while he waited for the “Margaritaville” mug (Painfully saturated orange and pink gradient on the text) to cool, remembering what they’d been talking about before the turn of topic he sighed, “anyway, you can have king if I can have duke.”

 

     Junkrat hissed over a lightly burned tongue before replying with a tilted head, “I mean king I’ll sure as shit snap that up, but why are ya going for duke? Ain’t that a bit down the chain?”

  
     “Dukes were the ones who actually raised shit like militaries. Backed up whatever loudmouth thought he was in charge.” Roadhog folded up the lower half of his mask enough to take a tentative sip.

  
     Nodding emphatically (and missing the subtle jab), Junkrat proclaimed, “good enough for me! All hail King Jamison Fawkes, and Duke Roadhog!”

  
     “...Mako works too.”


	2. I'm Boring And Therefore Went With This One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another plain jane chapter. Takes place when they're more or less comfortable with each other but probably not a thing yet.

     Rolling with someone that draws bounty hunters like catnip draws cats has its advantages.  Chief among them was all of the equipment bounty hunters brought with them.  Taking larger pieces of equipment in one piece could be tricky, but currently Roadhog and Junkrat were able to wait out the sun in actual air conditioning.

     The two had set up on some sleeping bags (likewise looted) in the back of a pseudo-military camper van for the sake of comfort.  The walls of the van were still warm from the sun, and they couldn’t really cover any of the windows (it hardly seemed heavily armed bastards were in short supply, never mind bandits), so it was a matter of enjoying the cool breeze and trying to avoid direct sunlight.  By all accounts, it was pretty damn nice.

     Junkrat had been stripping the guns claimed from their most recent fight.  Neither one could really make use of them, Roadhog just plain couldn’t fit his finger over the trigger, and Junkrat’s tremors were severe enough that anything that could be described as “hair-trigger” functioned as “random discharge” in his hands.  Therefore, the plasma cartridges were rewired into explosive charges, the larger pieces were used for a mix of casing and shrapnel, and the smaller bits were passed to Roadhog as ammo (He was glad to have a form of ranged weaponry, instead of depending on bringing the enemy to him; even if the thing was the size of a small adult.  Junkrat neither did things “little”, nor had much experience when it came to building guns, so scaling the whole thing up seemed logical.).  Every few minutes he would pop up and fervently scan the horizon, the work not interesting enough to dial in to the point of ignoring the world (unlike putting bombs _together_.).  

     Roadhog was reading.  He’d cleaned and maintained his equipment that morning when they stopped to pull out the water condensers, so he was left with very little to do besides engross himself in the beat-to-hell Donna Andrews book he had scavenged somewhere.  He habitually jerked up to scan the horizon when Junkrat did, but was otherwise more relaxed than he’d been in a long while.  He just generally felt good today.  

     Good enough he was considering taking his mask off for a while, actually.  He’d been on the road for a solid few months, after all, and he finally had the chance to enjoy some air that wasn’t just clean, but properly cold.  Wasn’t like he had a lot to hide from his companion at this point, dropped one too many cheesy jokes to be considered an emotionless killer.  Wasn’t like there was much damage Junkrat could do, either; shout at someone in a pub that Roadhog has a face?  

     Since Roadhog felt good enough to generally not care about being watched…  He went ahead and popped the clasps loose.

     The mask had been a nifty bit of construction, put together back when non-renewable supplies hadn’t yet run out.  Second only to the filters in importance were the reactive lenses.  Roadhog had found an optician whom he’d gotten to make some extremely custom lenses, after he’d gotten sick of being blinded by light and glare during the day.  They were a thick, scratch resistant plastic that retained a smoky tint in bright light, turning the world a bit grey, but fully visible, but a few minutes in the dark meant that the lenses would lighten until completely clear.  Incredibly useful for survival, with the side effect that he got used to a rather desaturated world.

     So he couldn’t help but look around a bit and blink as things leapt into saturated brightness around him.  Truth be told it was mostly the olive-greens and beiges that come with the pseudo-military aesthetic the bounty hunters seemed to love.  Glancing over at Junkrat though, was a different story.  The bastard was covered in enough orange and yellow that traffic would slow for construction around him.  

     And before he could turn away, Junkrat whipped up from his work to check the windows.  He completely missed Roadhog the first pass, but on the second caught sight, and jumped a solid foot in the air.  He clutched a hand to his chest and wheezed in an exaggerated fashion, as he realized Roadhog was, in fact, Roadhog.  “Hooooly fuck, Hog, scared the shit out of me.  Thought some other huge motherfucker snuck in or something for a sec.”

     Roadhog nodded in acknowledgement and turned back to his book, aware of Junkrat scootching towards him in his peripheral vision.  He’d apparently become more interesting than prospective explosives.

     “Didn’t know that thing came off!”  Junkrat was seated across the space from him, knees folded up and arms crossed on top of them as he observed Roadhog.

     Roadhog shrugged and kept his eyes on his book, watching Junkrat over the edge.  Honestly he was twenty years out of practice with people being able to see where he was looking at any given time.

     “That’s a _lot_ of piercings.”  Junkrat shifted and seemed to consider if that would be taken as an insult, “I mean it looks cool as hell, just ain’t really seen that many on someone before.”

     Roadhog honestly didn’t know what he had expected if not this, he figured that warranted a response, “yep”.  Okay, not much of a response, but it did feel good to be complemented once in a while.

     “Badass scars.”

     “Yeah”.  In Roadhog’s opinion, you survive a chemical attack, you make peace with half a nose.  But even he didn’t know that he’d call it “badass”, exactly.  He did crack a bit of a smile though; twenty years with the philosophy of “don’t get close to anyone” might have left him just a _little_ susceptible to flattery when he finally wound up giving half a shit about someone.

     Junkrat was continuing to edge closer, now almost hovering over the book and with a laugh, announced, “hey, you even do emotions!”

     Roadhog looked up, “‘do emotions’?”

     “Yeah!  You know… with your face?  Uh, fucking... emoting, that’s the thing!  Used to you just having that pouty pig face on and all.”  Junkrat was shrugging in as near as he could get to a sheepish manner, while passively flapping his organic hand.  Roadhog would have taken issue with his mask being called “pouty”, but it was his turn to jump in surprise, having meandered his way to looking Junkrat in the eye.

     In general Roadhog was not one for casual eye contact.  Just never appealed to him.  The fact that he could just point his mask in someone’s general direction and they’d assume they were getting a death glare and shit bricks accordingly was a massive upside.  In the months he’d been running with Junkrat he’d made eye contact maybe twice, and had made note that his eye color was a bit weird.  You don’t see a lot of folks with light brown eyes.

     Of course that was under the assumption that they were actually some variation of brown, and not goddamn glow in the dark traffic cone orange.  Roadhog leaned forward, face knit in confusion, and noses only a few inches apart he muttered, “okay, what the fuck.”


	3. Entirely Derivative, Baby!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Black Widow AU by trans-junk-rat on tumblr. Mostly because I love the idea of a desperate millionaire correctly judging which curmudgeonly motherfucker is down with murder, but tragically misjudging who that murder's gonna happen to.

     Mako didn’t make a habit of speaking to the Husbands.  He didn’t want to risk getting attached to a human mayfly, after all.  Besides, the mix of trust fund twenty-somethings and decrepit millionaires that had gone for the nearest “dumb” blonde were generally assholes.  

     Unfortunately, being under the employ of rich bastards meant grinning and bearing it if they decided to talk to him.  Well, the grinning was unnecessary, thank god for breathing masks and all.  But nonetheless, Mako didn’t have much choice but occasionally grunt in banal agreement as the most recent one to put a ring on Jamison tried to talk “shop” at him.

     Mostly, Mako was tuning him out as he replaced the transmission Jamie had ground into dust (A habit built to have an excuse to haul Mako out most weekends for “emergency repairs”, of course.).  Only acknowledging where he could tell… the fuck was this one called anyway?  Mckartey maybe?  He was almost certain it’d been “Summers” on his last paycheck, anyway, had been expecting agreement.  He was only shaken out of this stupor when a particular question rang through:

     “So what do you think about Jamison?”  

     Mako didn’t look up, wouldn’t be the first time someone had caught on to them.  The partners aspect anyway.  But no use acting nervous and having to rush this one; Jamie’d been dosing the fucker’s breakfast smoothies with cyanide and apricot kernels for three weeks, and it was going well.  So, with measured disinterest he responded, “think about him?”.

     Probably-Summers angled his hand towards Mako like he was making a business proposition, “I mean, you don’t  _ like _ him, do you?”

     Well shit, and also oh hell.  Mako was already scheming ways he could deal with Please-No-One-Could-Curse-A-Kid-With-McKartey.  Currently, smacking his head on the edge of the pool around back and letting the water do the work was winning.  Nonetheless, if there was anything he could do, not freaking out was top of the list.  “What gave you that idea?”

     “To be frank, Mr. Rutledge, absolutely nothing.  Seems like a fair guess to say he annoys the shit out of you, dragging you out here nearly  _ every _ weekend for a measly fifty an hour!”  Mako looked up, surprised both at the goddamn millionaire  _ not _ trying to insinuate he was being grossly overpaid, and the general badmouthing of Jamison 96%-Sure-His-Current-Last-Name’s-Summers.  The suit was looking at him with what he assumed was supposed to be a sly expression, “now, Mr. Rutledge, I have a once in a lifetime offer for you.”

* * *

 

     Things had gone remarkably smoothly.  A snapped brake line is hardly difficult to fake, especially when it’s no secret that Jamison is hell on cars.  The easiest way down from the mansion was a winding cliffside road with an awfully flimsy guard railing.  The geography even allowed for the overambitious goldfish to watch the fire engine red sports car arc into the ocean below.

     Jamie sat in the garage Mako shared partial ownership of, perched on a stack of tires with his legs crossed.  He’d raised a bit of a stink on principle over Mako “agreeing” to whack him for a  _ measly _ half million, but couldn’t stop himself from cackling when the plan had been laid out.  He’d hardly been able to keep a straight face when he waved goodbye and cruised away down the cliffside.  

     The actual work once he was blocked from view of the house was extensive enough to require a checklist (which, at that moment, he remembered to delete.  That’d be an embarrassing way to get arrested.), but he’d carefully laid out a tarp beside the driver’s side window, and seated within, gave the glass a solid enough punch with his prosthetic to shatter the window.  Next was to simply wrap up the broken glass, and stash it away for disposal.  Making sure the car was lined up properly to fly right off the cliff was next, quickly followed by the decently-sized rock to the accelerator and quickly slamming the driver’s side door shut.  Fully primed for McKartey to join it in the ocean below.  Soon enough, anyway.

     Getting to where Mako had picked him up was a bit tricky, but nonetheless he’d been smuggled to the closed garage and waited out the day with a few card games and watching a little tv together.  

     Finally, Mako walked back into the dimly lit workspace, snapping a burner cell phone shut and stuffing it into his pocket, “how the hell do you deal with these guys all day?”

     Jamie popped to his feet and followed Mako to the actual bench in the room to flop across his lap, “tits if I know, mate, satisfaction of all that money I guess?  Getting to be cleverer than ‘em?  Can’t say I’m disappointed we’re saying goodbye to ol’ McKartey early, anyway.  He’s coming, right?  Can’t wait to see what it looks like when someone sees a ghost and all that.”

     Mako nodded and leaned back, and working his fingers through Jamie’s hair, responded, “said he’d be here any minute.  Bringing the five hundred k with him.”

     “Perfect.”

     The next few minutes were filled with casual conversation, mostly discussing how they’d sneak Mako in to stay over until the next mark presented himself.  And when, exactly, Jamison would be satisfied, anyway.  Finally two soft raps sounded from the side door.

     Jamie scrambled behind the door while Mako unlocked it, the mechanic growling a quick, “inside”.  The nervous Mr. Sohmers (Okay, Mako’d been damn close, and keeping track of them beyond the fifth or so seemed a bit pointless, anyway.) creeped through the doorway as if that would make him less conspicuous, a brown deerskin suitcase under his arm.

     As soon as he’d taken two steps into the shop, Jamie couldn’t help himself, springing forward to grab his Unlucky Number Thirteen by the shoulder, as Mako slammed the door shut.  Fighting back a laughing fit, he hissed, “guess who,  _ sweetheart _ .”

     As it turned out, someone who thought they’d seen a ghost looked abso-fucking-lutely hilarious.


	4. Yeah I'm Not Too Big On Most Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But did you know that February 22nd is National Dog Walking Day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me (peeking out of a bean pod): "Did you know... "cold-cock" is a term that means to knock someone out? Just to avoid any confusion."

     There were upsides and downsides to kidnapping.  The downsides were mostly related to the upkeep and containment of whatever valuable persons they’d gotten ahold of.  Actually, there were practically zero upsides besides extra players for card games.  After all, one could get just as big of a payout robbing a bank, and they wouldn’t have to babysit and generally put up with whatever elite had a daddy that would cough up some ransom.

     All things considered, dognapping was going a bit better.  Even if (Ankle-biter, Mutt, Furball, Bitey, Yappy Bastard…  Neither of them hadn’t thought to ask for the fluffy whatever’s name when Junkrat cold-cocked the butler walking it.) did have annoying habits like barking at random but all-too-frequent intervals, and biting the hand that feeds it without remorse, this gig was way easier.  Hell, they’d even been able to sneak the puffball of a beast into a motel that allowed pets, so it was just a matter of waiting for the thing’s owner to get them the three hundred grand (CAN) and keeping it from ruining the carpets.

     The singular complication that had arisen (Besides noise complaints, but those were nothing new.) was having to walk the extra-bitey dog, under threat of an extra-extra-bitey, over-excited muppet wreaking havoc on Roadhog, Junkrat, and any of their belongings that didn’t fit on a raised surface.  So, at least twice a day, the two would have to brave matching the increasingly-specific description of two massive, extremely distinct criminals travelling with an extremely small dog.

     Therefore, at eight p.m., just after the sun had set, Roadhog looked over the patchwork of band-aids covering his hands, and in slight desperation, asked, “mind getting the dog ready?”

     Junkrat looked at his own bandaged hand, at the freshly scratched-to-shit end of his peg leg, and to the small orange blur streaking from one side of the room to the other.  He subsequently flopped backwards as near the center of the bed as he could, “yeppppp.  Absolutely minding the hell out of that.”

     Roadhog weighed his options.  He really didn’t feel like being bitten today.  

     “Besides, the little bastard’s gonna take my toe off or something next…  I’ve only got the three!  I can’t be throwing them around willy-nilly.”  

     Sighing deeply, Roadhog laid out what amounted to a weighty offer between them, “I’ll owe you one.”

     Junkrat peered over the edge of the mattress again to watch the dog perforating the slipping sheets.  “Dunno…”

     “A big one.”  Honestly, not having to put his hands anywhere near that dog’s head would be worth anything Junkrat could come up with.

     Mulling over his options, Junkrat tapped his fingers.  Finally, he deflated and reached over the side towards the dog, “Fine, but I’ll be cashing that ‘one’ in for something that’s sure-as-fuck worth it!”.  He retracted his hands as needle-teeth barely missed his fingertips.  Quickly slapping on a glove, he scooped up the six pounds of fury and began trying to hook the lead onto the tiny jewelled color, “I mean it’s the  _ leash- _ t you can do, anyway.”

     Roadhog did not move a solitary centimeter as the full ramifications of that pun sunk in.  He slowly covered his face with his hands, and with great emphasis replied, “......................... _ No _ .”

     In the process of Junkrat’s ongoing laughing fit, he lost hold of Canis-Ira, whom, after briefly attacking his prosthetic, futily charged Roadhog, falling off the edge of the bed as its leash ran out and it lost balance.

     Standing and walking to the door, Roadhog slowly shook his head, “that took three years off my life.”

     “Wow.   _ That  _ took three years off, how the hell are you still standing?”  Junkrat followed, shifting his weight from one side to the other as he continually untangled himself from the winding leash. 

     “Been dead twenty, just on the inside.”  Roadhog checked the peephole and cracked the door.  He noticed the change in atmosphere behind him, and quickly added, “I’m fine, just a good opportunity.”

     Junkrat put up the “O-K” sign with his free hand, “Cool, cool, cool.  Thought I was gonna have to take you out for a bit of cheering up or something.”  He waved the loop of the leash towards Roadhog with a hint of desperation as the dog once again made a valiant attempt to garrot him at shin height, “how ‘bout you take the little bastard since I leashed ‘em up?”

     Shrugging, Roadhog took the offered leash.  After a moment he added, “you know the worst part is this dog’s probably  _ not _ a bastard.”

     “What now?”

     “Dog weddings.  Rich people throwing weddings for their purse dogs.”  

     Junkrat shook his head, “I…  You’re fucking with me, right?  Fuck, you aren’t are you?”  He shuffled forward with a hollow look in his eyes as he stared at the teacup pomer-something trying to navigate the staircase to the parking lot, “So this is what death’s like…”


End file.
